


'til the world is mine

by ClaraBFangirl



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Apocalypse, Canon Typical Web Shenanigans, Spider death, Spiders, Time Fuckery, but you don't need to know what's going on over there to understand this, gratuitous and purposeful misunderstanding of rifts and Hilltop Road, introspective Annabelle, vaguely inspired by rp twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23012134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraBFangirl/pseuds/ClaraBFangirl
Summary: It's not that Annabelle cares about Jon Sims, or the people who work in that crumbling old building, or even the city as a whole, she truly doesn't, but the way Jonah grins when he dethrones her (over and over and over again) is... rather frustrating.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	'til the world is mine

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing about Annabelle, inevitability, and the spider that heralds the start of Jane's attack on the Institute.
> 
> Title from Billie Eilish's "You Should See Me in a Crown" because that's what Annabelle deserves.

Every time, she sends out a warning.

Every time, it arrives too late.

Spider #342, nickname Enrique, a delightfully friendly parasteatoda tepidariorum, doesn't make it through the door to the Institute, after an unfortunate meeting with a businessman's shoe. #343, a segestria florentina named Elyse, has to pick up the slack, and she, of course, arrives as all the others before her- just in time to be smashed with a manila envelope by Jonathan Sims, just in time to make sure he discovers the worms eating away at the plaster, and Annabelle can take comfort in the fact that at least the ones where they know what's coming are better than the ones where her spiders never get there at all.

It's not that Annabelle cares about Jon Sims, or the people who work in that crumbling old building, or even the city as a whole, she truly doesn't, but the way Jonah grins when he dethrones her (over and over and over again) is... rather frustrating.

And, she supposes, she liked the world Before. She doesn't want her life to change, no need for more excitement, no more stress. The apocalypse is not the ideal environment for spiders.

So, from her broken throne at the peak of Hilltop Road, she sends out warning after warning after warning, one, two, twenty, as many as it takes. She lifts each of her children to her face, whispers how she loves them, how they make her proud, how they're the only ones she's still fighting for, and she sends them, spinning endlessly, through the rift. 

#571, an angelic thwaitesia argentiopunctata, Roman, killed by a father "protecting" his child. Annabelle snarls in frustration, exhaustion, pain. Clears her head, and sends out #572, Susan, portia fimbriata, trapped by those two giant oafs and smashed with glee. God, she'd kill them. If they were still alive, she'd tear them limb from limb, she would not make it easy.

That's one of the bad ones, where Jane attacks at full power. They are all caught off guard, and the poor girl never sets off the fire alarms. Jon Sims survives, and hastens in his transformation, and that, too, is a failure on Annabelle's part.

#694, phidippus regius, breaks the mold by arriving a year and a half late, and becoming something of a... pet, to the Archival team. When Annabelle looks back on the timeline, she can't bring herself to be mad. Her child is alive, free, she almost envies the little thing. And besides, it seems that timeline is... already broken, in a sense. That one, at least, is safe for now.

Not safe enough, though. She keeps tabs on that timeline, laces it with #695-713, and she moves on. 

#729. Arrives to be smashed through plaster. 

#730. Intercepted by Jonah, and trapped in a jar. The small slip of paper tied carefully around its abdomen is set aflame. 

#731. Smashed through plaster.

#732. Well.

#733. Can.

#734. You.

#735. See.

#736. A.

#737. Pattern.

#738. Forming?

It takes... a few. A few more timelines pass the point of no return before she can stomach sending out another spider. #739-802 are okay, they're safe with her, gathered around her throne as she mourns the siblings she didn't have the energy to name before she lost. #803 is rambunctious, though, and she needs to give him something to do, so she sends him through the rift, and watches him fail, and the next, the next, the next. 

It doesn't get any easier.

She wonders why she cares so much, why she so desperately wants the Hive to fail. She and Jane are not so different, she supposes, as a particularly lovely araneus quadratus crawls along her finger, pressing comfort into every delicate step. Two women more hollow than flesh, two homes to other, smaller, softer and more worthy things. The mother of spiders and the worm queen are sisters in their fear, and here she is, ensuring Jane's death.

The difference, she decides, is that Jane was never going to be queen of the world.

The spiders she sends out are bigger, meaner, more dangerous. She needs them to arrive in the Institute a month prior to the the standard, and she can't play nice by sending any more gentle pholcidae and expecting them to get the job done. Pity poor Sims and his ridiculous fear of her perfectly normal and lovely little ones, but the fate of the world- her world- is more important than his temporary discomfort while he receives her warning. Jonah can't be right about the inevitability of the Great Eye. She lives to prove that smug bastard wrong.

It's an allocosa funerea, #920, that finally gets the job done. She sprints past Breekon and Hope as they carry a heavy and mesmerizing table into the Institute, narrowly avoids the tired janitor's broom. She drops a roll of paper onto the Archivist's desk and scurries off just as Jon comes back with his tea. And it's done. If he reads it, if he believes- maybe, then, maybe-

The warning is simple. Written in shaky cursive. 

Prentiss under Institute. 1 month. Stop her or world ends.

From her little darling's eyes she watches Jon's lips mouth the words, the panic that crosses his face, and the paper flutters slowly to the floor as the Archivist sprints from the room.

It is silent for a long while. Then, footsteps. The clacking of expensive shoes, a steady rhythm the staff's overtired, underpaid worn-out soles could never hope to replicate. Good. So he's Seen.

Jonah Knows exactly where the little slip has fallen, crosses to it and crouches down to pull it off the floor. Turns right to where the funerea waits, poised to run, in the shadows. He sighs, brow furrowed over sharp green eyes.

"Annabelle, sweetheart," he drones, tucking the paper into his coat pocket. "you certainly have made a mess of things, haven't you?"

Every time, she sends out a warning.  
This time, from behind eight beady eyes she grins at the man who took (will take, has taken) everything from her. Knows better than he can Know that she's set him back at least several decades, bought herself some time. She leans back in her crumbling (but still standing, still sturdy, still strong) throne, and waits for the pieces to fall into place.

Long live the queen.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: welcometotheorbitinghotel. Come yell about the impending horror of S5 with me!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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